I love my Christmas ornaments. I have Santa Lucia girls with candles in their hair, a cross stitched Nutcracker, felted angels and beaded stars from my daughter in law's visit to Kenya. They came out of hiding the first weekend in December, and danced on drooping branches for one glorious month. I am sure the conversations that happened after I went to bed involved catching up, and gossip about Odhner preparations.

 

"Lori seems a bit behind, don't you think? Not so many gifts under the tree this year."

 

"I liked it better when they put us closer to the piano. We like to sing too, even though our voices are teensy."

 

"I wish the twins had put me on a higher branch, so I could see out the window." 

 

Truth be told, there was one decoration that never quite came down last year. A string of angels above the doorway stayed there throughout the spring, summer and fall. At first I told myself it would be special to see them all the time, but actually they slipped out of my awareness. They did not arrive with the jubilation of long lost friends, the way the Santa Lucias did. I decided to give them a chance at hibernation too, and tucked them away with the stars in old popcorn tins on a basement shelf. 

 

Marriage has seasons. They are not so neatly divided into three month segments, but they start to look familiar. This morning I am feeling sunny about our marriage. This is good. But if good can be quantified it is even better because of how I felt a few weeks ago. 

 

If you had called me on one of those dismally gray afternoons when all that was left of Christmas were stray needles, and said to "Savor the bleakness!", I would have rolled my eyes. But the memory has lingered long enough that today's cerulean skies are even bluer from their absence last month.

 

Still I am curious. Where does God store the sunshine on a rainy day? I suspect it is more likely an attic than a basement. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Jenny Stein

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